


calm before the storm

by orphan_account



Series: pressure points [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Oneshot, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:18:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1484347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's one of the quieter Christmases. Until it isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	calm before the storm

It's the faint buzzing of the orange squeezer that draws him, naked and dishevelled, from some downy depth of Mycroft's bedding. The (antiquated) vac-pot whirs quietly to life over Sherlock's barefooted tile-slapping. He takes over one curved chair and slumps, wenge dark-wood cool against his torso. Coffee is trickling into the glass carafe like a slow, dark ribbon, glinting with what light morning allows them, and Sherlock rests his head on folded arms, says with drowsy nonchalance,

"Meeting with Magnussen."

Over by the gleaming steel, Mycroft is occupied with the hard-boiled eggs he's taken to eating. He shows no indication of having heard, so Sherlock half-dozes, until sudden sharp coffee-aroma scatters sleep away like smoke, and Mycroft is across him, swathed in neat blue.

Just as Sherlock looks every bit like he spent most of last night being fucked into the sheets by his brother, Mycroft looks nothing like it. If anything, he looks exasperated, (mildly so, because Mycroft condemns wearing an expression anything beyond mild outside the bedroom). He sighs over the tinkling of stirring sugar into Sherlock's coffee.

"Why Sherlock", he says, "must you make playing with fire the sole purpose of your entire existence."

"Why must you make gaining weight the sole purpose of yours?"

Mycroft deigns not to respond, which is disappointing. He slides breakfast across, a meagre one, courtesy of another diet, and Sherlock won't miss hard-boiled eggs, but he'll never get used to the coffee at Baker Street now. Or the cramped kitchen, as compared to Mycroft's generous backroom, which Sherlock is free to destruct to his liking – fumes and festering thumbs. Or the sheets, or the windows, or the chairs, or the walls, and this is what living with Mycroft does to him, without fail.

Sherlock stagnates in luxury, and Mycroft is a cunning devil.

He would, he thinks, steal the coffee pot, fancy wooden base and all, if he had any patience for it. He doesn't have patience for any of Mycroft's things.

"I'll accompany you", Mycroft declares abruptly after a stretch of silence, and Sherlock doesn't have any patience for Mycroft either.

"That won't be necessary."

"So you think."

"I don't need my big brother escorting me everywhere, Mycroft."

Mycroft casts his cup aside and says with bland disapproval, "You have all the disillusioned confidence of a five year old."

"Next you'll want to hold my hand, walk me across streets."

"Hold your hand in public?" Mycroft lets the question hang, folding his hands on the glossy surface. His gaze on Sherlock, across the block of Kitchen Island, is like the Egyptian cotton of his sheets: too indulgent, too distracting. Sherlock's mind decelerates and winds to a halt.

"My darling, I want that always."

It's not dark, like it was at the concert three nights ago, when Mycroft entwined their hands and whispered a kiss against his ear while the violin crooned over them. It's not dark, so Sherlock can't hide his flush and his insides have disappeared along with all his words. Mycroft is, he knows, invariably pleased.

"No need to be mawkish", he tells his egg cup, because what the hell is he supposed to say? Romance doesn't exist on his lexicon, and Mycroft is just so bloody smug about it, throwing Sherlock off-track.

Sherlock longs to kiss it out of him, but that would take several lifetimes.

"Humour me, sweetheart", Mycroft glides over to him, raises his face, magnetic lips, and Sherlock stretches to follow as he withdraws but Mycroft, in his typical way, doesn't pander. A swift kiss into his hair and Mycroft's gone with the cups.

The devil.

"When did you say again?" Mycroft asks over the rush of water. "I forget."

"I haven't said."

"Well. Careless of you, isn't it?"

"You're not invited, Mycroft. I know it's difficult for you to comprehend this concept, but you'll be intruding."

He knows he's said it scathingly enough when Mycroft leans against the gleaming slab and smiles at him over the dishtowel, like he enjoys every bit of Sherlock's derision. Sherlock knows he does.

"Tell me anyway. When?"

 The trick, always, is to appear sufficiently reluctant. Sherlock offers a customary eye roll.

"Today, if you must know. After dinner, or Mummy would insist he stay and he's already eaten of my plate once. I don't intend for him to eat off hers."

Mycroft is agreeably confused. Perfect. "Why are you having dinner with Mummy?"

"Why, Mycroft", Sherlock crosses over and plucks away the dishtowel, ridiculously soft. He savours what comes next, and the way Mycroft is wary.

"It's Christmas. Don't tell me you _forgot_?"

Sherlock counts to four before Mycroft groans. His phone appears from some hidden robe-pocket and he shrugs Sherlock away. Sherlock peers over his shoulder.

"Anthea? You left Mummy's present to _Anthea_? Shame on you, Mycroft."

"Shut up."

There must be something incredibly right about it, if Mycroft dislikes it so. Sherlock wraps around him and kisses down his neck, "It's never as bad as you claim it is." Not today at least, with deception to look forward to. 

"Reprehensible." Mycroft discards his phone and turns to gather Sherlock close, the soft twill of his pyjamas brushing Sherlock's thighs, and there is indeed something incredibly right about Christmas – Mycroft kisses best when he kisses in pique.

"We should take a shower", Sherlock decides, dropping Mycroft's robe to the tiles. "Can't go for dinner smelling like each other, Mummy would know in a second."

"Would help with the boredom at least", Mycroft grumbles, and he lets himself be tugged out of his clothes. "Sitting around all day, drinking _tea_."

"We're British, Mycroft. Or have you forgotten that too?" Sherlock goes on his knees, and Mycroft's rejoinder is a low moan.

 

In the end, they smell like each other, and Mummy is none the wiser.

Out of the rows of endless crombie that is Mycroft's wardrobe, he's drawn tweed and corduroy, and it's very often that Sherlock's pleased with Mycroft's attire, but the way he blends into this absurd bucolic recluse their parents have chosen is especially pleasant, for some unidentifiable reason. He longs to take Mycroft out back, shielded from view, hold him right where he wants him, quick and quiet.  

He doesn't. He's got less than seven minutes, dwindling rapidly like sand through his fingers, and Sherlock's getting anxious, so he lights cigarettes and he stands close to his big brother.

The lands stretch out, endless unmoving green all around them, a frightening calm, and even the crunch of the gravel is too loud. Their idle conversation is too loud. His heart is too loud.

 _Dragon slayer,_ Mycroft monikers, and Sherlock thinks of when Mycroft was seventeen and leaving him, and Sherlock was ten and furious: breaking things, refusing to sleep until Mycroft was packed to leave next morning and Sherlock fell asleep and missed it. Mycroft had crafted him a rudimentary treasure map and left it for him to find, as though he knew Sherlock would come digging through his room to appropriate things for himself, to abandon things for Mycroft, for comfort.

A tiny note fluttered onto the mattress, _clues,_ and Sherlock had to hold it up by the window in the bleak morning light.

Just him, Mycroft's spiky-neat handwriting, and the quiet.

 _My pirate,_ in spiky-neat handwriting: a moniker they both recalled when Sherlock was sixteen and Mycroft was twenty-three, and Sherlock plundered into his bedroom and stole kisses.

It didn't matter. The clues didn't matter. The cleverly concealed odd trinkets didn't matter – the house still too big and too empty, and his brother made him feel stupid and clumsy, but Sherlock missed him with every inane math problem and boring dinner chatter.

It didn't matter when he emerged, lighter and quieter, because he'd been gone too long and then he was going again. Sherlock was nearly eleven, and he was furious.

Useless thoughts.

Mycroft's forty-five, and Sherlock's nearly thirty-eight. His brother still makes him feel stupid and clumsy.

 _Then why wouldn't you want me to take it?_ He asks, stupid and clumsy.

Maybe it's because it falls into their usual repertoire of needling, or because the drugs are beginning to take effect, Mycroft responds in kind, maudlin with intoxication. Sherlock doesn't have the words, (what the _hell_ is he supposed to say), but he loves his brother with every tidal pulse of their shared blood. He watches the door for a while after it clicks shut, and he wishes he'd told Mycroft to eat some cake.

But he's made a vow; John Watson's got a gun in his coat, and Sherlock's out of minutes. The beating of helicopter sounds as he extracts leverage from Mycroft's jealous guarding, which is no happy accident -  it's Sherlock prerogative to be pleased with his work. John is delightfully alarmed, and Sherlock swats away at anxiety.

He climbs in next to one stony faced agent and hopes, as they whir and hover and sway, that Mycroft reads this treasure map quickly enough. So he can get back to well-appointed sheets, and Mycroft can fuck him right into them.

It's Christmas, and the game is on

**Author's Note:**

> I know Mycroft said they don't usually do Christmas dinners, and I've elected to ignore that. :)


End file.
